


Where Are We Now

by regala_electra



Category: Glee
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-15
Updated: 2011-05-15
Packaged: 2017-10-21 23:01:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/230810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/regala_electra/pseuds/regala_electra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>He’s not going to be real or create a <b>Mean Girls</b> moment, breaking his crown and giving it to those deserving. Kurt’s not entirely sure he should be allowed around broken pieces. It seems they would work quite nicely as projectile weapons. A dramatic speech, perhaps, to shame them into changing and finally accepting him, no that’s a fantasy and they’ve already shattered his dream of the prom everyone’s supposed to have.</i> Moments before, during, and after the prom. On a scale of one to suck, it sucks, but that's not going to stop Kurt and Blaine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where Are We Now

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings** : Offensive Language (in particular: homophobic, sexist, fatphobic.)
> 
> Title from _The Sun_ by Portgual. The Man. I do not endorse the views of the outsider POV characters. My working summary was "Everyone at McKinley sucks, Kurt and Blaine have decided to go build an air ship and live in the skies because flying spacecrafts are cool, screw these homophobic jerks" but alas, Kurt and Blaine have to deal with the bad despite how awesome they are.

If you're looking for the river  
Just find the mouth  
It's grinding like gnashing teeth foaming out, foaming out  
Mixing up that hell to come

 

*

 

Brett’s date, Monica, shoves her sharp elbow in his side hard when he whoops loudly after Principal Figgins announces Prom Queen.

“It’s not good,” she hisses, casting a quick look around like she’s afraid someone might overhear.

“What?” he says because he’s still kind of stoned and he knows Kurt, he’s like, this bitchy guy who wears weird clothes and maybe he doesn’t like Brett but whatever, they’re cool now. Brett figured out regular bathing was important once he got interested in Monica. “He’s gay, right? Don’t they like being—”

But he stops talking when he sees Kurt run past the crowd, that short dude with the slicked back hair (Kurt’s _date_ , oh shit) calling after him.

“Not good,” Monica says again and when Brett tries to put an arm around her, she shrugs him off.

 

*

 

When Bret voted, he’d put _legalize it_ on both slips before dropping them in the ballot boxes.

There are dozens of pointless handwritten slips like that. They’re tossed in the trash before the final tally.

 

*

 

“Are we going incognito?” Blaine teases when he meets Kurt at Breadsticks. His fingers twitch a little when he brings his hand up like he’s going to straighten Kurt’s camouflage bowtie as if it isn’t already perfectly even. Sometimes he can’t help himself—but it’s a little different now because Kurt’s his boyfriend. He drops his hand down when he sees the hostess staring. “I would have worn something less conspicuous.”

“No, Blaine. You look amazing,” Kurt tells him, a little breathy, turning to the hostess, a neat nametag proclaiming _Kryssi_. Blaine plasters a fake smile at her, trying very hard not to judge the ridiculous spelling of her name.

“May I help you?” She might know how to fake a friendly face but her voice is pure ice and quite nasal. Blaine wants to shrink back but continues to stand his ground beside Kurt. He’s not _wrong_ simply because he’s on a date.

“Hi, we have a reservation. Hummel.”

“I know who you are. I go to McKinley too.” Her eyes flick over to Blaine. “But you don’t.”

“Is this my new table?” A girl, maybe the same age as them, very short but an honest smile on her face, walks towards them. She’s got two menus in hand already. “Kryssi, I’ll take over from here.”

Kryssi rolls her eyes, muttering a _whatever_ under her breath before answering an incoming phone call.

“Let me show you to your table,” the girl says. “I’m Monica, I’ll be your server today. Sorry, I’m supposed to say that.”

She has a dorky laugh and knows it, ducking her head down as she hands them their menus when they’re seated.

Blaine tries to laugh with her but he can’t forget the look in Kryssi’s eyes, the one that precedes insults. The one before fists get thrown. He barely hears Monica when she says gently, “I’ll give you two a moment, okay?”

Kurt hasn’t picked up on any of that. He’s brimming with a secret, busying himself with flipping through the menu as if he isn’t spending more time looking at Blaine.

Blaine loves it when Kurt looks at him like that. It means so much but what it makes Blaine believe is that they’re the only ones who matter and it’s _special_. He should probably attribute it to the magic of dating Kurt but he’s always felt this way around him, it’s pure _Kurt_ and Blaine wishes he could feel like this all the time.

It’s a little silly to be so happy _just because_ but for a moment, he lets go of his anxiety and focuses on Kurt’s fake concern when he asks Blaine if he’s pushing his luck by ordering a Diet Coke tonight since he’s already had two today.

“Well, you are a little jittery.” Blaine really wants to hold hands, but he doesn’t, because they’re supposed to be looking over their choices, as if they haven’t already decided on favorites at Breadsticks long ago. He teases Kurt a little because he loves to see Kurt’s face change expressions, how sometimes it’s like Blaine’s _voice_ —and not his singing voice, but his speaking voice—has the ability to make Kurt blush. “Did someone go shopping and not invite me?”

Kurt bites his lip. “Later. I—I’ll tell you later. I need to order something before I forget to eat.”

“Okay,” Blaine says, finally leaving the awkwardness of the icy hostess behind as he flirts a little, knocking the toe of his shoe against Kurt’s boot. “I hope it’s something good.”

 

*

 

The hostess’s got a story, too. It doesn’t absolve how she smiled when she scribbled Kurt’s name down, folding the slip once, twice. She’d almost kissed it with her sticky lip gloss but that would’ve been a signature and anonymity’s the whole point.

 

*

 

Kryssi used to be a cheerleader until that fucking whore Santana got her kicked off the squad during Santana’s brief reign as head cheerleader.

She wasn’t about to go to Quinn Fabray (a girl who had a baby _out of wedlock_ ), to get reinstated. Coach Sylvester would probably have just told her to try out next time so that Coach could have the pleasure of telling her no. Kryssi was never one of Coach’s favorites. She’s not stupid.

So. She’s not a cheerleader anymore. She remembers Sissy Hummel. Santana came up with the meanest nicknames for him but fuck her, Kryssi isn’t going to use any of them now. He and his fat fag hag had thought they were fucking queen bees strutting around. Oh, how she’d hated it when Coach Sylvester had given him that gay _French_ solo for their Nationals number last year and that they’d won with it.

But she knew how to fake it and smiled when they’d finished their routine, trying not to flinch when he’d brought everyone in for a group hug. Like they were all _besties_.

Now she’s working at Breadsticks because she’s ruined her athletic scholarship chances. It doesn’t matter; the Cheerios lost this year. None of the graduating senior Cheerios have a shot at going to a decent college. At least she’s only a junior. There’s prom to think of now and whatever she can do to scrape back into the popular clique next year.

There’s a cute guy waiting in the lobby, way too short, but Kryssi isn’t blind. Before she wonders who he’s waiting for, there’s Hummel, striding in like he owns the place wearing _camouflage_ chic. She tries not to shudder.

He and that mystery guy start talking. _Gross_ , they’re on a _date_.

She’s super professional to them but Monica, stupid short, fat Monica, whisks them away like that’s not a part of Kryssi’s job or something.

Later, when Kryssi’s shift is at an end, Monica strides up, arms crossed in front of her almost saggy boobs. (Thank god, Kryssi’s a perfect C cup, she’s not going to sag until she’s like, 30, really old.)

“They weren’t doing anything.”

Kryssi snorts, tossing her hair off her shoulder. “Whatever. Like I care. I’m off, Cankles.”

 

*

 

A Cheerio uniform might be tarnished this year with the terrible loss at Nationals, but it’s still satisfying to swish away from the ballot box and knowing that you get to take someone else down with you.

 

*

 

Kryssi’s best frenemy is Laurie and they’re rooting through the fugly offerings at the prom warehouse while she dishes all about Kurt’s little boyfriend.

“Oh, I think I saw him once,” Laurie says, annoyed that the red dress she put against her body is size 00. No time to lose enough weight to fit into that.

Kryssi could totally wear it and Laurie tries not to hate for it but she does. Bitch.

“When?”

“In the courtyard, the week Hummel came back. Some hot guys in uniform showed up and sang to Kurt. He was their lead singer, I guess, and said some stuff about it being a goodbye in song or whatever. Fucking glee club.”

“Gross. Why do they have to like, do that shit? No one thinks they’re cool. And that’s so gay.”

Laurie laughs and that sets Kryssi off.

“ _So gay_.” Lauries pauses for a moment, fingers trailing over a sequined dress that’s way too old-fashioned but she likes the sparkles. No. Shiny never works with her skin tone and then people will mock her. “I mean, it was kind of cute. Maybe. But they’re both boys.”

“Are we that sure about Kurt?”

“Oh my god, Kryssi, you’re so _mean_.” Laurie fake-gasps like it’s so shocking to hear that from Kryssi.

It encourages them both to start bitching about him and it feels so damn good to tear down all his oddities—what was her English teacher prattling on about? Right, catharsis, and she stops thinking about a sequined ball gown she’s always dreamed about wearing to prom and picks something slinky because then she’ll fit right in. Even though she kind of hates it.

“I bet he’d love being prom queen,” Laurie says, later, after they’ve narrowed down their choices for their prom dresses. “You think he’s going to wear a pretty princess gown like all of those loser glee girls will be wearing?”

“He’ll so be the prettiest one,” Kryssi says, pausing dramatically to flutter her eyelashes. “Out of those ugly bitches, at least.”

“Do you think anyone will vote for Zizes? She might break the stage.”

“Or try to eat us. Ugh, there’s like no one running that I’d vote for.”

“Not even Santana? Fakest bitch that was?”

“Real funny, Laurie, like I’d ever vote for _her_. Did you read that newspaper blind item? I bet she’s totally a dyke. She and Brittany were always making out at parties.”

“I’ve made out with Brittany,” Laurie points out, the only part of that night she remembers other than spending the rest of the night in the bathroom, puking her guts out. Brittany had been the only one to look after her, telling her that it was okay to cry as Laurie sobbed about how bloated she must look.

 _You’re really pretty_ , Brittany had told her and Laurie almost kicked her out of the bathroom for lying, but she hurt too much to move.

Off of Kryssi’s disgusted look, Laurie says defensively, “The kissing gets guys so hot. Whatever. Santana’s with Karofsky, so she can’t be gay. I’d vote for him.”

“What, you really are voting for Santana?”

“God no. And not Quinn, either. Not after she fucking quit the Cheerios. Also she’s a former _fattie_.”

“I _know_. I almost vomited in my mouth when I saw that picture. And I thought getting stretch marks from having a baby would be awful. _Whore_ marks.” Kryssi smiles, pleased with the insult.

Laurie shudders. “And the rest running are nobodies. Not as bad as being in glee, but still.”

“Too bad Hummel isn’t running. He’d _love_ the sparkly crown.”

“Hey,” Laurie says, pulling out her cell phone to text her favorite non-frenemy friends, the perfect plan forming. “What if we did vote for him?”

“But he’s not on the ballot.”

“Write-in candidate,” Laurie explains, smirking. “My cousin totally won her prom even though she wasn’t allowed on the ballot because the other girls running were jealous of her and didn’t want her winning prom queen on top of homecoming queen. If we write in Hummel’s name and some other people did—”

“You are like the smartest person ever.”

“I know,” Laurie says, hitting send on the text. “I so feel bad for other people who aren’t me.”

She almost feels good for a moment, until she find out her credit card’s been declined. Kryssi pays for it though. Because it gives her the freedom to tell everyone they know that Laurie’s family is having money troubles again.

Laurie, knowing she’ll just have to destroy her best frenemy forever some other day, hugs her hard and squeals, “Thank you, sweetie. You are so the best!”

 

*

 

They aren’t the first to have the idea.

By the time Laurie checks her text messages she’s gotten back replies of _omg ur so mean rofl_ and _hockey team already voted the queen for queen_ and _im telling all my friends to do it_.

It’s easy to send messages back and forth like that, but the real satisfying thing is that they’re all in on it. They pass knowing looks in the hallway, try to not to laugh at how the Bullywhips club starts get super serious about protecting Hummel.

It’s just a few scrawled letters on a slip of paper stuffed in a ballot box. Easy as that.

 

*

 

Some hear about it but the rumor mill gets things mixed up. The school won’t let the gay kid on the ballot, so yeah, they’ll write him in, isn’t that like, super edgy and totally progressive of them, see, _they’re down with the gays_.

But it’s a lie to think that they’re doing it because they give a damn about him. Wouldn’t they have asked the boy who isn’t on the ballot if that’s what he wants?

Wouldn’t they have spoken to him?

Wouldn’t they have spoken up for him?

But they haven’t been slushied. They haven’t gotten body checked into the lockers. They’re not losers or winners, and they’re fine with sticking in with the crowds. No one can make them out of a lineup and that’s fine with them.

Kurt’s just so out there, so _gay_ and like, maybe he shouldn’t be so gay but the vote’s been cast and there’s no need to regret.

He’ll be grateful. Gays love being the center of attention, right?

 

*

 

Kurt knows he’s growing up, not because of physical things, like the difference in height from this year compared to last. He’s won a minor debate with his dad and he’s going to prom and he’s _happy_. When his dad nods at his frankly flawless outfit, not saying another word about the kilt, as they wait for Blaine to arrive, he smiles.

There’s fixed points—severe regrets and glorious high notes—that have brought him here. Last fall he was almost sure loneliness was going to be his only companion, that he was going to have wait, maybe forever, and now he’s waiting for his boyfriend, his _prom date_.

To say he’s deliriously happy now is to say he was only kind of miserable before.

“This is what I always wanted,” he says to his father, because he can’t keep it in any longer.

“You’ll be careful.”

“Please,” Kurt scoffs but he knows that look in his dad’s eyes so he softens his acidity. “I will. I promise. This is about Blaine, too. I don’t want him to get hurt.”

“Neither of you should get hurt,” Burt says and Kurt realizes he’s not just talking about prom. He stares at the floor for a while because maybe if he looks at the floor he’ll stop hating the world, just a little, for making everything so impossibly difficult.

 

*

 

Lauren stops beside Kurt and Blaine as they stand uneasily at the edge of the dance floor. She waits until the song tapers off before she speaks. “Approve of the navy?”

“Spectacular,” Kurt says after a moment of careful consideration, which Lauren abides with a runway worthy spin.

“Well, I love it, but I am one for navy,” Blaine admits. Then, like he’s got some manners handbook stuck in his head that he forgot to check, he says, “I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced—”

“Wow,” Lauren says, looking at Kurt. “You’re dating a dork.”

“What can I say? He looks good in a suit.”

“You didn’t tell me that,” Blaine says quietly but Lauren picks up on it.

“I thought it was obvious.”

“Hell yeah it is,” Lauren agrees. “Work that suit, Warbler boy. Hope you voted for me, Kurt.”

“I thought our votes were anonymous.”

“Well,” Lauren sighs, because they are or she might have asked her dad’s college roommate about vote tampering, “that’s true. At least I’m a definite shoo-in for the Shadow Court. One of the many perks of having Puckerman as my delicious arm candy.”

Kurt stares at her. “Oh, well. Congratulations.”

Lauren nods. “Well I am the biggest badass at this school.”

 

*

 

He stands before them—bullies even if they don’t label themselves that—maybe they assign themselves as trendy haters, claiming that they’re keeping it real.

Kurt already given too much of himself.

He’s not going to be real or create a _Mean Girls_ moment, breaking his crown and giving it to those deserving. Kurt’s not entirely sure he should be allowed around broken pieces. It seems they would work quite nicely as projectile weapons. A dramatic speech, perhaps, to shame them into changing and finally accepting him, no that’s a fantasy and they’ve already shattered his dream of the prom everyone’s supposed to have.

He can barely make out Blaine in the crowd as they’d entered the gym separately, Kurt using the exit closer to the stage. To make his march to the podium less tortuous, he’d explained to Blaine. Right now, brevity is the breadth of his wit.

So he gives the audience what they think they want. He’s so much more than that but screw them. The victory’s like dust in his mouth and worse when Karofsky runs off and that ABBA song keeps playing.

The empty clearing between him and the crowd feels like an impossible pit. He turns around, unable to bear their eyes on him.

He’s never going to listen to _Dancing Queen_ again without remember this exact moment: fear and something that Kurt desperately tries not to label as shame. The music is almost drowned out by the sound of his heart pounding in his chest.

The he hears, “Excuse me. May I have this dance?”

 

*

 

Blaine overhears two girls chattering when everyone’s making their goodbyes and starting to leave the prom. Kurt’s off talking with Mercedes and Sam. Mike and Tina are standing nearby, forming a neat perimeter, listening intently as Kurt laughs that fake, high one where it doesn’t reach his eyes.

The two girls who haven’t noticed him yet and they’re busy gossiping like they’re desperately trying to memorize the highlights of the night.

“I didn’t realize he was like, Kurt’s date, but he was so hot.”

“Did you see how he held the microphone? Shoulda know he was gay.”

“When he was dancing with Kurt, oh my god, I wished I was a gay guy.”

“I wish he was straight.”

They think they’re being kind, that’s the worst part. Blaine can’t bear to listen to the rest of the conversation.

 

*

 

They didn’t kiss in the hallway when Kurt gathered the strength to walk back into the gym. Or in the car when they finally left, no conversation needed on the drive back home.

Not even a kiss on Kurt’s doorstep, which is supposed to safe.

He thinks about when he used to play with other kids in the neighborhood, before the local boys stopped hanging out with him because he liked tea parties and _girly things_. All that the boys wanted to do was play real sports instead of tag and the doorstop at his old house no longer meant home base. It was still home but only because once he was inside, no one could bother him anymore.

It almost feels like that now when they walk past the threshold, only it’s ruined just like home base.

He kisses Blaine against the back of the front door when he’s turned the lock, ignoring Finn sitting on the couch in the living room. They’ve never kissed in front of anyone and congratulations to Finn, he’s the first person to see them like this.

Kurt can’t really care, not when Blaine slides his hands up Kurt’s shoulders and holds on until they have to stop kissing because it’s supposed to be a balm and it’s so much more than that.

He’s sort of scared that he’s ready for that something more.

“Hey guys,” Finn says, a little worried since he’s finally caught on how they both look so—Kurt doesn’t even know. They look something, all right. “What happened after I got kicked out?”

“It’s—”

“No, Blaine,” Kurt says. “I’ll tell him. Quinn didn’t win.”

“Oh man, she’s gonna be pissed. Was it because of me? She’s going to blame me, isn’t she?”

It’s on the tip of Kurt’s tongue. To tell the awful story, but it’s too complicated. He wonders how he’s supposed to dress it up so that he won’t sound pathetic, how to make it almost sound like he didn’t lose a thing tonight. But he did and even when Blaine’s hand slides into his, he can’t say anything at all.

“Maybe you should call her,” Blaine suggests, not unkindly. “We’re both a bit…tired.”

Finn nods like he hasn’t even considered the idea. “Yeah. I should call her. Sorry about getting into it with Jesse St. Douche when you were on stage. You sounded good, though.”

Blaine stares blankly at him so Kurt has to knock his shoulder against Blaine to prompt him to speak. “Thanks.”

They stand around waiting while Finn turns back to whatever show he’s watching, Kurt too weary to do anything else. Blaine’s so warm in his hand and he thinks (no he fantasies, which is stupid and irresponsible of him to do) how easy it would be to squeeze three times, quickly, to tell Blaine that thing that he’s known for so long but that they haven’t said to each other. Three little words, that’s all it is, something that won’t hurt, but terrifies him at the same time.

He doesn’t have to wonder if Blaine would understand what he means; Blaine would know because he broke through the stupid crowd that had to crown Kurt to _put him in his proper place_. Blaine had been scared and still walked into that gym—twice—because of Kurt and they’d danced together and everyone had to watch them.

“Something else happened, didn’t it?”

Kurt hates it when Finn’s being perceptive.

“Yes. But I don’t want to talk about it. Right now, I mean,” he amends when Finn gives him a long, hard look that Kurt didn’t even know Finn was capable of.

“On a scale of one to suck how bad is it?”

“How does that even work?” Blaine asks. “Does that mean one is good?”

“No, ten would be good. One is bad.”

Kurt doesn’t question the logic. “Four. Eight. Zero. Two. One. Five.”

He looks at Blaine. “Ten.”

“Wow. That’s—a lot of numbers.”

“It was a lot of suck,” Kurt says flatly. “Blaine has a few hours before he heads home, do you mind leaving the living room?”

He’s giving it away by being that polite, he’s supposed to be snappy and impatient, but he’s weary down to his bones and all he wants is that numb ache to go away.

“Yeah, no problem,” Finn busies himself with getting rid of the snack wrappers around his wrinkled tux. Kurt doesn’t have the energy to tell him since it’s a rental he should probably switch to his pjs now. He’s got an armful of trash as he walks past them to head into the kitchen. For a moment Kurt thinks Finn’s about to hug him, or worse, try to bring both him and Blaine into a one-armed hug. “Whatever happened, I’m sorry it did. You guys are awesome.”

“It was the best dance I’ve been to,” Blaine says suddenly, fiercely. He’s about to add more, maybe stammer full speed ahead on a jerky speech, his hand tight in Kurt’s hand.

“Words can’t do it justice,” Kurt interrupts. “Let’s stick to the numbers. For now.”

Finn claps Kurt on the shoulder before he walks away.

Kurt closes his eyes briefly and draws a huge breath. Lets go of Blaine’s hand and slowly collapses towards the couch. Blaine doesn’t follow him right away, hesitantly shifting on his feet before he takes of his jacket, folding it and draping it on a chair.

He sits beside Kurt, fingers twitching oddly in his lap, a nervous habit Kurt’s always wondered about. It makes sense now.

“You don’t have to ask my permission to touch me,” he says. “The answer’s yes.”

“It’s presumptuous,” Blaine says but he’s not arguing. The knot of his tie is loose and Kurt resists a strong urge to open it a little more. There’s too much selfishness in chasing after Blaine’s skin for comfort. “Kurt, I…what you did, I wanted to tell you—you’re right. They don’t matter, not to us.”

Kurt knows that’s not true, not really, but he also understands the words Blaine’s hidden under that. He pulls Blaine into a kiss that’s more _fuck them_ that it ought to be, but that doesn’t stop Blaine from slipping his tongue inside Kurt’s mouth, his hand tight on Kurt’s hip.

They might keep going. They might stop. They might find a hundred reasons why they’re supposed to think this through, but Kurt will leave that for later because he’s not going to regret this ever.

Blaine’s working on undoing Kurt’s bowtie when Kurt says, “To us.”

“Us,” Blaine promises, pulling him close.


End file.
